


We need to concentrate (on more than meets the eye)

by winterysomnium



Series: Makeup AU [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen, M/M, makeup AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Another package for you, Master Timothy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We need to concentrate (on more than meets the eye)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration AU that I am writing with varebanos. We came up with it after rewatching Under the Red Hood and after throwing the line "Get the Al Ghul look" into the conversation. I intend to update this AU at least once a week, since there's a lot of stuff that's going to happen. We're very excited about it, and I hope you'll like the idea too!  
> Title is a lyric from the song "Twenty Years" by Placebo.

“Another package for you, Master Timothy,” Alfred declared, the box in his hands swallowing nearly all of his chest, the patterns swirling across the surface glinting with a glossy shine, sun’s gold and autumn’s greens, a vanishing red. 

Tim leaned into the sound of Alfred’s voice, slumping in his chair, a soft groan slipping past his teeth, barely getting through his lips. “ _Another_ package?” He asked, reluctantly turning to the side. 

Alfred closed the door to the office and with swift, rustling steps he reached the wide table pushed close to the windows, carefully setting the large box beside a cluster of papers. 

“A package?” Bruce raised one eyebrow, frowning at the infamous tricolour logo of Al Ghul’s enterprises, focusing more on the shape and size of the box than on Tim’s annoyed, tired curl of mouth, more than on the sigh stopped in his lungs. 

“What package?” Damian asked, his schoolbag still slung around his shoulder and his lunchbox held loosely in his hand, standing beside the edge of the table, his frown a copy of Bruce’s. 

Tim let out the tiny, suppressed sigh, ready to resign and try to explain but before he could even shape, even think about what he intended to answer, the office door opened again, Dick’s curious tone following right after the soundless click.

“ _Whose package_?” He asked, grinning.

“Dick!” His name resounded in unison; a reprimand, disbelief and some displeasure, all aimed at his moving silhouette, lightheartedly approaching his chair to the left of Tim’s, the smile on his lips changing into slight shapes of surprise. 

“What?” He stopped, barely looking offended as he shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the top of his chair, leaning onto the top with his forearms. “That was a _completely_ innocent question! Honest! Geez, for once I’m not trying to be funny and you all have your minds in the gutter. Except Dami, of course.” He sent the boy an impish smile that was met with offended indifference, Damian’s arms crossing across the front of his hoodie.

“I _did_ understand that, Grayson,” he informed him, his eyes darting back to the box, still seated next to the uneven pile of Tim’s files. 

“But the essential question here _is_ , _why is Grandfather sending Drake packages_? What is in them?” He glared at Tim, something unpleasant rising in his chest.

If Tim hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen the methods of Ra’s education, he would almost believe Damian is hurt, _jealous_. As is it was, the boy was probably more put off, _disconcerted_ by the attention. (Could it mean possible harm?) 

Tim’s eyes slid down to his name printed onto the box’s front, then darted across Damian’s face, grazing the edge of Alfred’s frame before – with a quick glance at Bruce and Dick – settling on the papers before him. “Mostly it’s samples. Or barely started projects with prototypes, incomplete lists of ingredients. I think he just wants to – to lure me with them. To get me curious enough to take his offer.” Tim sighed. “One would think that he would stop after I told him not to send me anything anymore after the third one.” 

“Wait, his _offer_?” Dick asked and Tim looked up, nodding. 

“Yeah. He offered me the position of the head of his company’s cosmetics division.”

Dick whistled and sat down into his chair, clasping his hands behind the back of his head, several strands of his hair slipping over his fingers, curling above them. “That’s pretty huge. But you’re not saying yes, are you?”

Tim quickly looked at Bruce, then back to his papers. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Anyway, didn’t _Bruce_ offer you a similar position?” 

“That I did,” Bruce agreed, shifting minutely in his seat across from Tim, his tie crooking with the movement. 

“Well, you’re taking it, Tim; right?” Dick smiled, the sun dripping down one of his shoulders like a fallen strip of paper, narrow but clear, soaking his shirt with warmth. It nearly became an itch, until Dick scooted closer to Tim. 

“I’m still thinking about it. It’s a lot of responsibility.” Tim started fiddling with the papers, straightening their edges and carefully readjusting every file, avoiding any direct questions, any direct looks. 

Bruce placed his forearms on the table but didn’t lean any closer, his expression serious yet fond, a mixture of feelings he wasn’t sure how to show. “Take your time Tim. No need to make a rash decision.”

Tim’s eyes flickered up to Bruce’s, a relieved smile settling in the corner of his mouth. “Thanks, Bruce. I’ll let you know soon.”

With this still on his lips, Tim got up, put the files on the top of the box and lifted it up, the weight there but not quite heavy, a slight strain on his arms. “Anyway, I’m gonna take the data and run them through the computer.” He nodded to the papers, looking back at Bruce. Then he smiled at Alfred, genuine and proper. “Thanks for the delivery, Alfred.”

“It was no problem at all, Master Tim.”

“See you at lunch, Tim!” Dick called from his seat, a small wave filtering in and out of a stream of sunlight, the sight almost dizzying, almost something beautiful.

“Yup. Save me a seat!” Tim answered and thanked Alfred for opening the door for him, both of his hands trapped under the cardboard box.

“You bet.” He heard Dick respond, heard the conversation shift. The weight in his arms felt oddly comforting; something to focus on. 

Something to _remind_ him.

(There aren’t only shapes and weights to things.) 

There is the inside of them too. 

Slipping into his office, Tim shoved the box on the corner of his side table, picking up the files and throwing them onto his desk, turning his laptop on with a click of a key.

Both of those offers were great. They were _amazing_.

He could be his own boss, could choose own his team, could prove himself. 

He could prove that he wasn’t the cause of his Father’s bankrupt. 

Yet still: his third option was the one that seemed to be the only one that felt right.

It wasn’t a direct offer for him. It wasn’t a secure, well-paid position.

He wouldn’t even be his own boss.

But that all seemed like just a shape of something. Just a weight of it.

(Something _unimportant_.)

Tim sat down, taking a sip of his water, the plastic bottle firm yet pliant, pronounced under his palm.

The screen of his laptop softly shined, the glow reaching his wrists, and from everything written on the opened page, only three words seemed to really catch his attention, to really form into a thought.

“Jason Todd’s assistant, huh?”


End file.
